Too slow. How far had George come? How far was George going? The road had been long and without end, it seemed. He didn’t reminisce on the past often, instead, he always looked forward. He couldn’t, he mustn’t, sit still – he had to go forwards, always. That was his only option.

Too long had it been. Too slow had it been. From the ashes of his marriage, he had remained. He had carried on. His failings, apparent, in his jungle, the python proved to be an adder. Alone, he was left. Alone, he kept onwards on his track.

His career, road block after road block. How could he go slower than those around him? He had to go faster, further, even if it was towards a wall.

Yet he remained, himself – and what self!? Alone, against all, he shall press on. Leaving behind anything, everything – as nothing was worthy to be part of him.

Marching on in his mechanized machine of mayhem, his armor of ire, protecting him from anguish and pain. Invincible, he could keep charging, forwards, onwards on that road, so long. Safe, his majestic steed was whispering songs of strength in his ears. Titanic, his colossal dreadnought was crushing away the despair. Powerful, at last.

Cruising his river, faster than ever, he was flowing to the Styx, as no other end meant anything. And yet, too slow it felt. Faster. He had to go faster.

Suddenly, the celerity came to an halt, replaced by the cacophony of stillness. A red sign, a strong line, and in front of him, stopped, was this guest on his river. “How dare they!?” George thought, “Mine! It was all mine!?” No stopping would do. He had to keep going, at all costs, always. And so he blasted his hellish herald: BEEP, BEEP!